


The Picture of Dorian Pavus

by JayRain



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Blood Magic, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), M/M, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: The great painter Basilius is said to be able to capture his subjects' souls. Halward Pavus is counting on it. AU. Happy birthday, Schattenriss!





	The Picture of Dorian Pavus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schattenriss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenriss/gifts).

The terms were clear, and were the only ones under which young Lord Pavus would consent to participate: he would only be painted on the west veranda, and only in the hour and few minutes during which the sun was deciding whether to set or not: the golden hour. And while Basilius approved of the young Lord’s taste in lighting, it meant he had to work fast--faster than he usually did on a full-length oil portrait. But the elder Lord Pavus assured him that he would make it worth his while.

“My son is particular in his behaviors,” he explained as the younger copy of himself stormed out of the study. “I understand that he will try your patience, but your ability to render such lifelike subjects is the talk of the Imperium.” Lord Halward Pavus inclined his head in a show of deference, but only for a moment. 

And then he ordered a servant to bring drinks, and spent the next hour more interested in Basilius’s work than any other patron before or after. And Basilius shared his information eagerly, for too often his clients preferred the end result and had little interest in, or respect for, the process.

They didn’t understand how to create the interplay of light and shadow that would bring the subject to life on the canvas. “The golden hour will be perfect,” he gushed and Halward smiled and poured him another measure of whiskey, touching it with his own magic to chill it. Basilius took another sip and shared what it took to infuse life into the eyes, into the facial structure, to make the subject look truly alive and not a flat caricature. What it meant to have proportions in order, how necessary it was for the subject to remain absolutely still. He drank again and shared, “The Dexions cast a paralysis spell on their own dog to make it sit for a portrait,” he said, leaning in and glancing about conspiratorially.

“Did they now,” Lord Pavus said, tilting his glass and watching the last of the sunlight filter through it. “Perhaps I shall do the same to Dorian,” he added and his mouth curved up sharply as a reaper’s scythe.

“Oh no, my lord,” Basilius stammered. “I’m sure your son will sit quite well for his portrait without any… intervention.”

“As am I. He is stubborn but vain; once he sees your rendition of him, he will likely sit and preen and bask in the glow of your talent.” 

“My lord, I will capture his very soul,” Basilius said proudly, and Lord Halward Pavus’s smile turned upward all the more, nearly contorting his face. Or perhaps Basilius had partaken of too much of the Pavus’ fine drink. 

A servant escorted him to the guest house across the back lawn and instructed him to ring for anything, but he was asleep and snoring before the dinner bell was rung.

* * *

  
  


“Come with a list of further demands, father?” 

Dorian stood at his window, overlooking the darkened cottage across the back lawn. The painter would reside on the grounds to maximize his time for the portrait. Dorian silently cursed himself for not thinking to include a no-residency clause in his own demands.

“Only to thank you for your cooperation. Your mother has long wanted a full portrait of you,” Halward told him. He offered a fatherly smile and produced a package wrapped in silver paper.

“What trickery is this?” Dorian eyed the gift warily. No gift came without a price.

Halward sighed and undid the twine around the package himself. “I know you feel you have no reason to trust me, Dorian.” Dorian snorted lightly, and his father peeled back the paper. “But the only thing I’d like is for you to wear this when you are being painted.”

Dorian raised a sculpted eyebrow and peered at it. The crimson silk caught light and shadow and seemed to change every time his father moved it. It was lovely and damn it all, would look amazing on him. “Well. You certainly know how to appeal to my vanity,” he said by way of thanks. 

His father nodded, a tiny grin playing across his lips. “So I can count on you to behave for Basilius?”

“No tricks?”

“Basilius is known for capturing the souls of his subjects,” Halward said. “His work is incomparable. All your mother and I want is to have one of his works commemorating our greatest work of art.” 

An uncharacteristic shudder shivered up Dorian’s back; his father’s tone was warm, his eyes sincere. Perhaps a bit too sincere, but Dorian had grown used to questioning his father’s motives at every turn. He hadn’t realized that his father followed art news, nor that it was considered trendy to have a particular artist hanging in one’s sitting room. Then again, it had been some time since he’d given a shit about what the nobility considered  _ en vogue, _ as the Orlesians said.

He joined his parents for dinner, and begrudgingly agreed to an after-dinner brandy with his father. The bottle Halward broke out was new, and firelight made the amber liquid inside glow with inner warmth. It was heady, stronger than anything Halward had ever brought into the house, and Dorian felt certain it would burn holes in the carpet if he dripped any. As it was, he was surprised it didn’t burn the skin off his tongue, or that he wasn’t breathing fire by the end of the night.

He was also surprised to wake up in his room the next morning, head throbbing. “What  _ was _ that?” he asked his father when he finally managed to get himself out of bed and down to breakfast. The meager healing abilities he did possess couldn’t touch the hangover he had, so a pot of the strongest Antivan coffee they could manage would have to suffice. It was only when he was pouring his beverage that he noticed the cut on his arm.

His eyes remained on it when he set the pot down. It looked fresh, but in the early stages of healing. Perhaps he’d hurt himself in the stumble toward his rooms last night.

As the appointed hour drew near, Dorian sighed and dressed in the crimson silk shirt his father had gifted him. In the looking glass he saw a stunning creature, hardly human in the play of light and shadows in his room. He arranged his hair, waxed his mustache, steeled his will, and headed to the terrace.

Basilius awaited him, tall canvas at the ready, paints opened and arranged. “The lighting is fantastic, Lord Pavus,” he gushed. “Your decision to be painted here is excellent. Excellent, indeed!”

Dorian nodded his thanks and settled in; and once Basilius declared Dorian’s position to be perfect, he zoned out. He’d been painted before: alone, with his family. But this was new, a full-length portrait capturing him in all his glory.

He expected to have to make small talk after the gushing greeting, but Basilius was a professional, for all his giddiness and fawning with Halward the day before. “The crimson is a fine choice, my Lord,” Basilius did mention once. “And in this lighting, you shall look as if you were made of fire.”

It was a lovely compliment, and Dorian broke pose just long enough to smile in response. “May I see how it looks thus far?” Dorian asked, when the light had changed enough for Basilius to declare the day’s session over.

“Apologies, Lord Pavus, but right now, it’s but foundational work, and won’t do you any justice.” Basilius bowed and shooed Dorian away.

The next afternoon Dorian sat for his portrait, and his father joined in. He watched Basilius work with a critical eye, though said nothing but to comment on a particularly artistic stroke of the brush. 

“I appreciate your comments, my Lord,” the artist said. His eyebrows knit together. “The texture of my crimson paint is a bit strange, though. I believe it will be perfect though, when I’m through.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Basilius. Dorian? Are you coming?”

“Of course.” Dorian stood and followed his father into the manor, but his steps slowed. “Father… I’d have come in on my own, you know.”

“A father can’t ask his son to accompany him into the house?” Halward shook his head. “Fine, Dorian, do what you feel you must.”

So the days went, and often Halward sat out to watch the painter hard at work. Dorian found he didn’t mind sitting in the late afternoon sun; it was almost meditative. And when Basilius finished for the day, he headed inside for dinner with his parents, read a bit, and turned in relatively early. Having Basilius around had improved his father’s disposition, and made life around the manor feel almost tranquil.

The day came when Basilius cleaned off his last brush and stepped back with a nod of approval and tears in his eyes. “Lord Halward, your approval?” he requested. 

“Wait, Dorian,” Halward called, and Dorian remained seated, watching his father. Halward’s hands hovered over the painting, and a tiny itch started in Dorian’s fingers and toes, and then moved up his legs until he stood and made his way over. “What do you think?” he asked, watching his son carefully.

“Admirable,” Dorian said, and truly it was: Basilius had captured him perfectly. A pleasant numbness had settled in him. The full length portrait had caught his expression just right, and the golden light playing over his painted features. The drapes and folds of the crimson silk shirt seemed to move, even as Dorian stared directly at it. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Basilius bowed; Halward handed over his payment. Servants were told to remove it to the family sitting room at once, in spite of the painter’s protests. It would have been a lovely moment to undermine his father, but Dorian didn’t quite feel like it. Halward knew what he was doing. 

It was another peaceful evening after that, and Dorian headed to his rooms to read quietly before bed, and perhaps even catch up a bit on what was going on in Minrathous so he could accompany his father there for the next session of the Magisterium.

He stopped, cold settling in his belly and spreading out to his limbs. He  _ never _ cared for the Magisterium. What had gotten into him? He took a detour to the family sitting room to get a look at the painting in a different light. He called up a plain white magelight and let it hover overhead as he stared. His own grey eyes stared back, and it was his own slight, teasing grin. And of course, the crimson shirt, which he still wore, which was almost the exact same shade as…

“Blood,” Halward said, approaching from behind. “That Basilius can capture souls is just a saying,” he said. “But if he can create a perfect likeness of a subject, and that subject’s blood is brought into the mix…” He shrugged, and Dorian stared at him, mouth agape with horror.

The red shirt. The heady drunkenness, and the healing cut. “How could…” he began, but Halward just shook his head and waved Dorian out of the room. 

“We have an early start to Minrathous tomorrow, Dorian,” he called. “Best get some rest.”

The picture of Dorian Pavus watched on.  
  


* * *

Dorian woke in a cold sweat. His heart slammed against his chest and his fingers curled into the blankets, clutching until they ached. Next to him, his  _ amatus  _ rolled over and made a sleepy  _ humph _ . “Bad dream, stay sleeping,” Dorian murmured. He turned onto his side and caught his breath, but didn’t close his eyes. The dream was so real, so frightening, he didn’t know if he could--

A warm arm snaked around him, and a warm body pulled him close. A heartbeat pulsed against his bare back, and soft breath ghosted over his ear.

This was his reality, and for that, he was grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> In Wilde's novel, the painter who paints Dorian Gray is named Basil Hallward. Couldn't resist!


End file.
